Wildcard chapter 3

Partially edited. Should be ready and up by Wednesday.

---

Sparhawk watched Vanion escort Anthony inside, his opinions on the whole situation being mixed.

He could feel the general direction and distance to the man, the more so when he closed his eyes and focused on the strange connection. He found himself wondering how quickly the man could traverse long distances. Anthony had already intimated that the ability to sense direction went both ways. It was an uncomfortable breach of Sparhawk's sense of privacy, even if it was to someone who was completely beholden to him.

"Sir Sparhawk. Good to see you again." Sparhawk looked back at the voice.

Sir Olven was a bulky Pandion Knight with a number of angry red scars on his face and wore full armor enameled a matte black. "You and the others ride in the middle of us. With the fog, those soldiers probably won't see you. We'll drop the drawbridge and go out fast. We don't want to be in sight for more than a minute or two."

"I don't think I've ever heard you say so many words at once," Sparhawk commented.

Olven grunted. "I'll cut back for a week to make up for it."

Sparhawk adjusted the traveler's cloak over his shoulders, the links of his mail shirt whispering lightly against the boiled leather strips reinforcing his chainmail. Full armor would be far too obvious as they traveled, but he couldn't help but wish he could wear it anyway. In case of need, Kurik had stowed it in packs on the spare horses he'd would be leading. Sparhawk nodded to the others, mounted and waiting, and Olven made a signal to the men at the windlass that raised and lowered the drawbridge. They slipped the ratchets, allowing the windlass to run free, and the drawbridge dropped to the sounds of rattling chain to finish with a resounding boom. Olven was galloping across it almost before it hit the far side of the fosse.

The fog helped a great deal. Olven cut sharply to the left the moment he'd crossed the bridge, leading the column across the open field towards the road to Demos. Behind them, Sparhawk could hear startled shouts as the church soldiers ran out of their tents to stare after the column in bleery chagrin.

"Slick," Kalten said cheerily. "Across the drawbridge to disappear into the fog in under a minute."

"Olven's good at this," Sparhawk said absently. "And it'll be at least an hour before the soldiers can actually mount any kind of pursuit."

"An hour's head start? They'll never catch us," Kalten laughed. "This is a very good start to things, don't you think?"

"Enjoy it while you can. Things will go wrong later on when we're less rested."

"Pessimist," Kalten accused.

"Realist," Sparhawk rebuked. "Life is full of disappointments; when you get used to them, they start being less disappointing."

They slowed to a canter when they reached the Demos road. Olven was a veteran, and he always tried to conserve his horses. Speed might be necessary later, and Sir Olven took very few chances.

The full moon hung low over the fog, apparently having finally pushed past higher cloud cover, and it made the thick mist deceptively luminous. The glow confused the eye and concealed far more than it revealed. There was a chill in the fog, and Sparhawk pulled his cloak tighter against himself as he rode.

The Demos road swung north toward the city of Lenda before turning southeasterly again toward Demos, where the Pandion motherhouse was located. Although he could not see it, Sparhawk knew the countryside along the road was gently rolling and that there were large patches of trees out there. He was counting on those trees for concealment once he and his friends left the column.

They rode on. The fog had dampened the dirt surface of the rode, not enough for mud, but enough to kick up small clumps and clods. It was damp enough to muffle the sounds of their horses' hooves, though, and that was what Sparhawk cared about most. Every now and then, the black shadows of trees loomed suddenly out of the fog at the sides of the road as they passed by; Talen shied nervously each time it happened.

"What's the problem?" Kurik asked him.

"I hate this," the boy replied. "I absolutely hate it. Anything could be hiding beside the road - wolves, bears, or worse."

"You're in the middle of a party of armed men, Talen."

"I'm also the smallest one here, except maybe Flute," Talen said, eyeing the sides of the road with wariness. "I hear wolves and things like that drag down the smallest when they attack, because it's the easiest to carry off at a run. I really don't want to be eaten, Father."

"That keeps cropping up," Tynian noted curiously to Sparhawk. "You never did explain why the boy keeps calling your squire by that."

"Kurik was indiscrete when he was younger."

"Doesn't anyone in Elenia sleep in their own bed?"

"It's a cultural peculiarity. It's not really as widespread as it seems."

Tynian rose slightly in his stirrups, looking ahead to where Bevier and Kalten rode side by side deep in conversation. "Confidentially, Sparhawk? You're an Elenian, so you don't seem to have any problem with this sort of thing, and in Deira, we're fairly broad minded about such things. I don't know that I'd let Bevier in on this, though. Cyrinic Knights are a pious lot, like all Arcians, and they disapprove of such irregularities intensely. He's a good man in a fight, but a touch narrow-minded, and if he gets offended, it might cause problems later."

Sparhawk grunted noncommittally, his mind wandering back to the bald, potbellied man back at the chapterhouse. "I'll ask Talen to keep it to himself."

"Will he listen?"

"Maybe. Worth the attempt." Sparhawk sucked at his teeth thoughtfully. "Should have asked him for another fig before we left."

"Fig?" Tynian stared at Sparhawk blankly.

"Sorry. While we were in that hideaway, Anthony created a pair of figs from nothing to help us stay awake and energized for our escape." Sparhawk paused. "It was an excellent fig, actually. Just the right amount of sweetness and dryness to it."

"You have a lot of experience with figs?" Ulath grunted.

"Ten years in Rendoor," Sparhawk replied by way of explanation. "One of the few things about that country that's actually enjoyable. Too much sun, mutton, and sand will drive a man insane but a good fig or a handful of dates can make a bad day at least a little tolerable."

Occasionally the column passed a farmhouse standing behind the foggy road with hazy golden lamplight streaming from its windows, a sure sign that even though the sky had not yet started to lighten, day had already begun for the country folk. Of course, the full moon looming near to the horizon was evidence enough of that, Sparhawk mused.

"How long are we staying with the column?" Tynian asked. "Going to Lake Randera by way of Demos is a very long way around."

"We can slip away later this morning," Sparhawk answered, "once we're sure nobody's following us. That's what Vanion suggested."

"Who's watching the rear?"

"Berit's riding about half a mile back."

Tynian nodded. "Think any of the primate's spies saw us leave the chapterhouse?"

"They didn't have much time for it," Sparhawk replied. "We'd already passed them before they came out of their tents."

Tynian grunted. "Which road are we taking when we split off?"

"I plan to avoid roads, for the most part. Roads tend to be watched. I'm sure Annias has figured out we're up to something by now, assuming his soldiers care enough about their job to send a runner to Cimmura."

They rode on through the tail end of the foggy night. Spawhawk was pensive. The hastily concocted plan probably didn't have much chance of success. Even if Tynian could speak to the ghosts of the Thalesian dead, there was no guarantee that any of the spirits would know King Sarek's final resting place. The entire journey could well be futile and only serve to use up what little time Ehlana - and Sephrenia, and Vanion, and the rest of his brothers who'd offered their lives to maintain the ritual - had left. And that was the main reason he'd ultimately decided to leave Anthony behind to practice his healing magics, Sephrenia's insistence on the core group remaining at ten notwitshading: the man was simply in no condition to be running around the countryside for weeks on end, much less in an environment where rude strangers with sharp steel would take joy in how easy he'd be to murder. He didn't have much personal investment in Anthony's survival for its own sake, but to lose a backup plan to reviving Ehlana was simply unacceptable. The question was, though, when would they break the spell? How long before they gave up the search and attempted to use the strange man if the Bhelliom couldn't be found? And how long before their enemies figured out their goal and began trying to delay them?

He rode forward a bit to speak with Sephrenia. "Something just occurred to me," he said to her as he pulled alongside her horse.

"Oh?"

"How well known is the spell you used to encase Ehlana?"

"It's quite obscure and almost never used because it's so dangerous," she replied. "A few Styrics might know OF it, but I doubt most of those would actually know it, nor would any of them use it even if they did. Why?"

"I think I'm right on the edge of an idea. If no one but you is willing and able to use the spell, then it's unlikely anyone else would know about the time limitation."

"True enough."

"So nobody could tell Annias about it."

"Obviously."

"So Annias doesn't know we have only so much time left. For all he knows, the crystal could keep Ehlana alive indefinitely."

"I'm not certain that gives us any particular advantage, Sparhawk."

"I'm not either," he admitted, "but it's something to keep in mind. We might actually be able to use it someday."

The eastern sky was growing lighter as they rode, and the fog was beginning to swirl and thin. It was about half an hour before the sun would crest the horizon when Berit came galloping up from the rear. He was wearing his mail shirt and pale blue cloak, and his war axe was slung in his saddle. He was going to need instruction in swordsmanship soon, Sparhawk decided, before he became entirely too attached to that axe.

"Sir Sparhawk!" he said, reining in, "there's a column of church soldiers coming up behind us." His hard run horse was steaming in the chill fog.

"How many?"

"Fifty or so, and they're galloping hard. There was a break in the fog and I saw them coming."

"How far back?"

"About a mile. They're in the valley we just came through."

Sparhawk considered it. "I think it's time for a change in plans." He looked around and saw a dark blur back in the swirling fog to the left. "Tynian."

The Alcione knight drew closer from the space he'd given Berit and Sparhawk. "Yes?"

"I think that's a grove of trees over there. Why don't you take the others and ride across this field and get into that grove before the soldiers catch up? I'll be right along." He shook Faran's reins; the surly horse's head turned slightly to regard Sparhawk with an unfriendly look from the corner of his eye. "I want to talk with Sir Olven," he told the big roan.

Faran flicked his ears irritably before picking up speed, moving along the column at a gallop, slowing without needing to be directed as they approached Olven. "We'll be leaving you here," Sparhawk said to the scar-faced knight as he came up alongside him. "There's at least a half hundred church soldiers coming up from the rear. I want us out of sight before they reach the column."

"Good idea," Olven approved. As always, he wasn't one to waste words.

"Why don't you give them a bit of a run?" Sparhawk suggested. "They won't be able to tell we're not still in the column until they catch up to you, assuming they know we were in it to begin with."

Olven gave Sparhawk a crooked grin that was only partially due to the scar crossing his lips. "Even so far as Demos?"

"That would be helpful. Cut across country before you reach Lenda and pick up the road south of town. I'm sure Annias has spies in Lenda too."

Olven nodded with a grunt. "Good luck, Sparhawk."

"Thanks," Sparhawk said, clasping the scar-faced knight's arm. "We'll need it." He backed Faran off the road, and Olven raised his arm, calling out a canter, the column picking up speed as the signal passed along backwards, then faster still as somewhere ahead Olven signaled a gallop. The column thundered past.

Sparhawk leaned forward and patted Faran's neck. "Let's see how fast you can get to that grove of trees back there," he said to the foul-tempered warhorse.

Faran snorted derisively, then wheeled, accelerating to a gallop nigh instantly.

Kalten was waiting at the edge of the trees as they got there, his gray cloak blending well into the shadows and fog. "The others are deeper in," he reported. "Why's Olven galloping like that?"

"I asked him to," Sparhawk replied, swinging down from his saddle. "The soldiers won't know we've left the column if Olven stays far enough ahead of them."

"You're smarter than you look, Sparhawk," Kalten said, also dismounting. "I'll get the horses out of sight; the steam coming off them might be visible as the fog starts to lift. And tell this ugly brute of yours not to bite me."

"You heard him, Faran," Sparhawk told his warhorse.

Faran laid his ears back.

As Kalten led their horses back among the trees, Sparhawk sank down onto his stomach behind a scruffy bush. The grove of trees lay no more than fifty yards from the road; as the fog began to dissipate with the rising sun, he could clearly see that the whole stretch of road they'd just left was empty. Then, a single soldier in a red tunic galloped along, coming from the South. Something about the man raised the hairs on the back of Sparhawk's neck; he sat too stiffly in the saddle, and his expression seemed strangely wooden, like some kind of almost lifelike doll.

"A scout?" Kalten whispered, crawling up beside Sparhawk.

"More than likely," Sparhawk whispered back.

"Why are we whispering?" Kalten asked. "He can't possibly hear us over the noise of his horse's hooves."

"You started it."

"Force of habit, I guess. I always whisper when I'm skulking."

The scout reined in his mount at the top of the hill, then wheeled and rode back along the road at a dead run. His face was still blank, emotionless.

"He's going to ride that horse to death at that rate," Kalten said.

"It's his horse."

"True enough; I guess he's the one who gets to walk when the animal keels over on him."

"Walking is good for church soldiers. It teaches them humility."

About five minutes later, the main body of the church soldiers galloped by, their red tunics dark in the dawn light. Accompanying the leader of the column was a tall, almost emaciated looking figure in a hooded black robe. It might have been a trick of the misty morning light, but Sparhawk would have sworn a faint, greenish glow seemed to emanate from beneath the figure's hood, and his back seemed grossly deformed.

"They're definitely trying to keep an eye on that column," Kalten said.

"I hope they enjoy Demos," Sparhawk replied. "Olven's going to stay ahead of them for a good while." He shook his head. "I need to talk to Sephrenia. Let's meet up with the others; we can sit tight for an hour or so until we're sure the soldiers are well past us before we move on."

"Good idea. I could use some breakfast anyway."

They led their horses back through the damp woods to a small basin, with a break in the trees surrounding a trickling spring that emerged from a fern covered bank.

"Have they gone by already?" Tynian asked.

"At a gallop." Kalten gave the Alcione knight a grin. "They didn't even look around. Anybody have anything to eat? I'm starving."

"I've got a slab of cold bacon," Kurik offered.

"Cold?"

"Fire makes smoke, Kalten. Do you really want these woods full of soldiers?"

Kalten sighed.

Sparhawk looked at Sephrenia. "There's somebody, or something, riding with those soldiers. It gave me an uneasy feeling, and I think it was the thing we saw last night lurking around Cimmura's wall."

"I assume you got a better look at it this morning than you did last night?" Sephrenia asked. Sparhawk nodded. "Describe it for me."

"Tall, very thin. Its back seems deformed, and it's wearing a black hooded robe, so I couldn't see its face aside from what looked like a greenish light. Similar to last night."

Sephrenia looked focused. "Was there anything unusual about the soldiers who were with it, by any chance?"

Sparhawk nodded again. "They seemed almost half asleep. Expressionless. Like living dolls, if that makes any sense?"

Her face grew bleak. "We'd better leave immediately. You've decribed a Seeker. They're used in Zemoch to hunt down runaway slaves. The lump on its back is caused by its wings."

"Wings?" Kalten protested. "Sephrenia, no animal has wings. Except maybe a bat."

"It's not a mammal, Kalten. It more closely resembles an insect, although neither term is precisely correct when talking about the creatures Azash summons. It has very little in the way of a brain, but that doesn't matter because the Spirit of Azash infuses it and does its thinking for it. Its ears are very sharp, and it has a keener sense of smell than a bloodhound. The moment it gets close enough to pick up the active scent of Olven's column, it'll know we're not there and come back around if it's not already doing so. The soldiers will come back at that point."

"Are you saying the church soldiers will take orders from an insect?" Bevier asked incredulously.

"They have no choice. They have no will of their own anymore. The Seeker controls them utterly."

"How long does that last?" he asked.

"For as long as they live - which usually isn't very long. As soon as it has no further need for them, it will consume them. Sparhawk, we MUST leave. We're in mortal danger here."

Sparhawk grunted irritably. "I wonder if it's flammable."

Sephrenia shook her head, filling her waterskin as quickly as she could before getting back on her mare where Flute sat dozing. "It's possessed by Azash, Sparhawk. Setting it on fire would do nothing to it."

"Normal fire, maybe. Can't help but wonder if Anthony might be able to wiggle his fingers and conjure up something a little more potent."

"He has more important things to do right now, Sparhawk - as do we. Such as getting away from here quickly."

They rode out of the grove of trees at a canter and crossed a wide green meadow where brown and white spotted cattle grazed in knee deep grass. Sir Ulath pulled in beside Sparhawk. "It's really none of my business," the shaggy browed Genidian Knight said, "but if we'd known the soldiers were doomed already, we DID have at least twenty Pandions with us before. We could have just turned around and run them all down - them, and their bug."

"If normal fire can't kill it, it would probably take a lot of killing with steel to make it stick," Sparhawk pointed out. "Plus, even discounting the Seeker, fifty bodies scattered along a road attracts some very unwelcome attention, and fifty fresh graves would be almost as obvious."

Ulath grunted. "Makes sense. Living in an overpopulated kingdom has its own special problems, I suppose. In Thalesia, the Trolls and Ogres usually clean that sort of thing up before anybody wanders by."

Sparhawk shuddered. "Will they really eat carrion?"

"Trolls and Ogres? Oh, yes, as long as it's not too ripe. A nice, fat church soldier will feed a family of Trolls for a week or so. Part of the reason there aren't very many church soldiers or their graveyards in Thalesia. My point, though, is I don't like leaving live enemies behind me. Those church soldiers might come back to haunt us, and if that thing they've got with them is as dangerous as Sephrenia says, we should get it out of the way before it can do to more people what it did to the soldiers it already has."

Sparhawk shrugged helplessly. "Maybe so, but our chance already passed. Olven's out of reach. All we can do now is make a run for it and hope the soldiers' horses play out before ours do."

Privately, though, Sparhawk wanted to corner Sephrenia and question her more about that Seeker. He was sure there were details she wasn't sharing with them, details they probably needed to know.

---

Much as I expected, I crashed out around mid-morning. What I hadn't expected was that the members of this order were not only tolerant of my sleeping schedule, but surprisingly understanding; it seems that having different sleeping schedules was necessary for an order of active military simply to ensure there were people alert and on duty at nights in case of unfriendly trespassers. Not everyone welcomed this schedule, which was why they often rotated waking schedules - that, and the necessities of arms training meant even the natural night owls needed to spend some days awake on the practice yard.

Still, I found myself wishing I were in the sort of shape I was in my youth. Although... that might actually be in reach for me, now? I have access to a lot of healing magics that I've been ordered to improve, and there's no reason not to use them on myself as I practice them.

Maximizing the effectiveness of my healing abilities will involve training up more than just those healing abilities, but other synergetic spells as well, such as Druidism to create more powerful healing herbs to be brewed, and Upgrade to improve both ingredients and their final results. And Unseen Servants to tend to plants and harvest them, fetch raw materials for me to reshape into things I can actually use, and so forth.

Alter Object is going to be critical for me. After waking up in the afternoon, I requested from Vanion a shaving razor, and received a straight edged razor as a result. I've rarely used one, so shaving my scalp entails careful watchfulness and several mirrors.

Or, it would have, except the moment the edge of the razor would have touched my scalp, it slipped right through my fingers. And I don't mean between my fingers, fumbling like some butterfingered klutz, no, it passed through my fingers, and then my body, to fall to the floor like it wasn't even there. I couldn't even pick it back up until I moved away from it five feet then approached it again. I couldn't use it to cut paper, shave my head, nor even to accidentally or 'accidentally' cut myself.

Which is how I find myself in Vanion's study again. "I have a problem," I admit.

"I can't say I'm surprised," Vanion said, frowning as he pushed aside his inkwell and the papers he was working on. "What happened?"

Rather than describe the issue, I figured the fastest way to get the point across was a simple demonstration. I set the edge of the razor against the back of my arm, and the thing slid right through me like I'm a ghost.

It also landed edge down and did a bit of damage to his carpet, which I sincerely hope he doesn't notice. But at least it didn't land on his desk or a chair or something.

"Your restriction? Against things not created or altered by your magic?" Vanion guesses astutely. Seems even from something he learned while suffering sleep deprivation and whatever that sword did to him, he retained what I told him well enough to make the connection immediately. Shouldn't be surprised, though, given all the Pandion Knights are apparently wizards as well as trained knights so they can't precisely afford to have intelligence as a dump stat.

"The simplest thing would be for me to get some raw iron or steel," I take a few steps back from the razor, getting all the way to the wall, before walking forward again and picking the damned thing up. I carefully close it and lay it on Vanion's desk. "I can just reshape that into whatever I need, I think. That, and some glass."

"The iron and steel will be easy enough," Vanion says, picking the razor up with a small frown. "We have a farrier and a general blacksmith in the chapterhouse to maintain armor and weapons, and keep our horses shod. The glass might be a bit more difficult; there's a glassblower in Cimmura, but things between the Pandions and the Church there are somewhat strained at the moment, as I'm sure you've gathered."

"Yeah, I got that. But I can make the glass I need with plain quartz or obsidian," I reply.

"Obsidian?" Vanion says with surprise. He sets the razor down on top of some of the more nearly piled papers on his side of the desk, and leans back in his chair. "Then you don't need the glass to be clear?"

"Not really. Obsidian is just impure volcanic glass, and most manufactured glass is made from quartz sand. I can make either one into whatever glassware I need."

"You are a wagon full of talents, aren't you?" he observes drily. "Don't become too productive with any of that, or you'll likely anger some perfectly innocent craftsmen you'd be putting out of work."

"I don't have time to make a business selling windows and horse shoes," I reply with a shrug. "What I make is going to be for my use, for the most part, either directly or to fill in where my talents are needed and I can't be there in person. I have too much work to do already if I'm going to be ready for what Sparhawk wants from me. Also, before I forget: do you have a room I can set up in where I won't be disturbed, and I can craft or practice without being underfoot?"

"I'll see to it you get the supplies you need and a room to yourself; we do have some penitent cells where the repentant can seek isolation and make peace with their sins." Vanion makes a tired gesture with one hand. "And speaking of, I don't suppose you can fix the damage the razor caused?"

I wince. "Yeah, uh... I'll need a few minutes."

"Please do so. I don't have many luxuries in this world, but the carpet in here happens to be one of my favorites."

I see to the process of repairing the carpet with Mending as Vanion watches. "Your magic is fascinating," he comments. "And you say you're not praying to your Loki to do these things? What are you saying when you cast your spells?"

I give him a helpless shrug. "It's not... speaking, precisely. At least, it's not language in the way you're thinking of. You understand math, right?"

"I'm not ignorant, Anthony," he says reproachfully. "I know how to count."

"That... Does the word 'mathematics' translate for you?"

"I just said I know how to count." he pauses. "Or do you mean more than that?"

Yeah, that's not reassuring. "Vanion, are you willing to go over some counting with me, then? Just so I know if we're using the same terminology."

As it turns out, it's not quite as bad as I feared. I can't be too surprised at the fact that their numbering system is base ten - since humans conveniently have ten fingers - and has much in common with arabic numbering. Addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division are all well within his knowledge base, and he has a basic understanding of both fractions and percentages. He sort of grasps the concept behind exponents once I explain it to him, but roots don't seem to click for him even after I try to explain it as an inverse to powers. There is no concept of irrational numbers; the locals calculate the circumference of a circle as twenty-two sevenths of its diameter. If I remember correctly, that was disproven on Earth by Archimedes around 300 BC, so it doesn't speak highly of the advancement of the field of mathematics here. Zero is understandable, negative numbers are considered a useless oddity, and he seems absolutely lost when I try to introduce him to precalculus.

I honestly have no idea how they use catapults here - they do use them, he reassures me - and expect to actually hit anything. Unless he just didn't learn anything more in math as part of his education, which is honestly a distinct possibility given it's something of a specialized discipline even on Earth, and many people go their whole lives without making use of it after high school. I find myself wanting to introduce them to a slide rule, but I don't actually remember how to proportion it - or precisely how to use one for that matter.

"Okay then," I say after a half hour of this increasingly frustrating exercise. "All this stuff, it's basically the beginner counting of what I'm doing to harness free floating mana that's just... everywhere," I say to him. "And by counting I mean just the initial number learning part. It functions like mathematics in a lot of ways, but the kind of math I'm doing is both a simplified version that leads into more complex realms, and a mnemonic for patterns I have to hold in mind-"

"What was that word?" he asks.

I think back over what I just said, before tentatively offering, "You mean 'mnemonic'?"

"Yes. That."

"It means... like a short cut to remember something. For instance, classifying stars in astronomy is memorized by the sentence, 'Oh Be A Fine Girl, Kiss Me' and denotes in order the spectral classifications of O, B, A, F, G, K, and M."

"... Your magic cut away about halfway through that," Vanion admits, "And I didn't understand anything after the word 'order'."

I sigh. "The magic didn't fail so much as you apparently don't have any equivalents for it to latch onto." I think for a moment; most of the mnemonics I know wouldn't really have anything to compare to here, given a lot of them are rooted in biology, physics, engineering, and the like. "The language barrier isn't helping; the spell is letting me pick up some of your word, but that sort of thing takes a while to learn, and I've only been here... what, less than a full day?"

"We'll discuss your memno... menom..."

"Mnemonics," I prompt. "Honestly, even for us it's terrible to pronounce. Awkward syllables."

"Then I won't feel too badly for avoiding its use," he says. "You were talking about how it helps you remember patterns."

"Yes. The magic formulae are stepping stones to enhanced versions of themselves with wider application, greater power, further reach. In time, when I've practiced them enough I can skip steps, activate them reflexively, and even bend their rules in ways large and small."

"How difficult would it be to teach them to someone?" he asks.

Teach them? "That... I honestly have no idea," I admit. "Why do you ask?"

"Because as Sephrenia said last night, your magic doesn't follow the rules as we understand them, and the best way to be able to judge what you're doing is to have someone on hand who understands it." He shrugs. "Specifically, since I'm the one who is supervising you, I would like you to teach me."

I give a shrug of my own. "I suppose I can do that," I say. "What do you want to learn?"

"What can you teach me most easily?" he asks.

"Well... probably what I have the best understanding of is to alter objects, change their form and their composition from one thing to another," I say after a moment. "Like making volcanic glass into more normal glass or crystal."

"Then it seems to me that you can probably instruct while making the things you need," Vanion concludes.

"Not exactly? Teaching magic is something of a full time job; walking people through the basics means I'm not doing the more advanced forms that let me keep the items around for more than a minute, much less retain the forms I want them to take on a permanent basis. That said, teaching the basics SHOULD, theoretically, give a good grounding and jumping off point for being able to advance on one's own thereafter."

"How many hours a day can you spare while still practicing and advancing your healing magics?"

"Probably about two hours. Any more than that, and it'll probably start to slow everything else down. I still need to sleep, eat, and let my mind recover."

"Let's set up a schedule, then. I'd like you to teach me and a few other knights I select."

"You're the boss," I say.

---

"There's a roadside inn up ahead," Kalten said as the long day's ride was settling into evening. "Do we chance it?"

The horses' strength was flagging, now, clearly in need of feed, water, and rest. Sparhawk took the opportunity to pull up next to Sephrenia. "Will we be safe to stop here?"

"Only for a few hours," she said. "Just long enough to feed the horses and give them some rest. The Seeker knows we're not with the column by now, and it's certain to be following our trail. We can't linger here."

"Do we have time for supper, at least?" asked Kalten plaintively. "Sparhawk's stomach is scaring the horses."

Sparhawk snorted. "I could go for a few more hours yet without eating," he said indifferently. After a moment, he added, "I haven't actually been hungry all day, now that I think about it."

"Do you feel ill?" Sephrenia asked with concern.

"No. Not weak, nor more tired than after any long day of riding. I just don't feel like I need to eat."

Sephrenia examined his face, his hands, and his eyes for a few seconds. "... If I didn't know better, I'd never have guessed you hadn't eaten all day," she said thoughtfully. "When was the last time you ate?"

Sparhawk briefly took note of Flute slipping from the saddle in front of Sephrenia to run into the grass. "Last night. The fig that Anthony created."

Kalten scowled. "A fig? That's all you ate, some measly little fig?"

"It was a very good fig," Sparhawk said.

Sephrenia hummed to herself, lips pursed tightly. "I am starting to wonder about that man," she admitted. "If that single fig is able to sustain you for a full day of exercise, it's a remarkable magic."

"It would make our lives easier if it worked on horses," Kurik said, leading the spare horses up alongside the rest of them. "We should see if that inn has any spare oats or hay to sell us, enough to last for a few days."

"Hay won't be much use without a cart to carry it," Sparhawk disagreed. "And with that Seeker pursuing us, if we can't afford more than a few hours here, we definitely can't afford to be slowed down hauling a cart."

"I'd hoped for us to rely more on forage." Kurik's expression was a disgruntled one.

"We'll manage, Kurik," Sephrenia said.

"The HORSES will manage," Kalten complained, "and Sparhawk will manage, but right now, I need food and maybe a couple hours of sleep. We could ALL use that sleep, for that matter, given last night was interrupted, and we've been on the move since before sunup."

The inn was run by a thin, cheerful man and his plump, jolly wife. It was a comfortable place and meticulously clean. The broad fireplace at one end of the common room did not smoke, and there were fresh rushes spread on the floor.

"We don't see many city folk this far out," the innkeeper commented as he set the platter of roast beef on the table. "Especially seldom knights. What brings you this way, my Lords?"

"We're on our way to Pelosia," Kalten lied smoothly, helping himself easily to a couple of large slices of rare beef, the juices running down the sides of the small pile of chopped, roasted potatoes he'd already served himself. "Church business. We're in a hurry, so we decided to cut across."

"There's a road that runs on up into Pelosia about three leagues South of us," the innkeeper said helpfully.

"Roads wander a lot, following the easiest path," Kalten said, cutting into a slice of beef and popping the bite into his mouth. Around the mouthful, he added, "And, as I m'ntioned, we're 'n a h'rry."

"Anything interesting happening hereabouts?" Tynian chipped in casually, as Kalten began to dig into his meal in earnest.

The innkeeper laughed wryly. "Little enough happens out here; the local farmers can stretch six months of chatter out of a cow that died in the spring." He drew up a chair and took a seat uninvited, sighing. "I used to live in Cimmura when I was a young man. Something was always happening; I miss the excitement of it."

"What made you decide to move out here?" Kalten asked, spearing another slice of beef with his dagger.

"My father left me this place when he died. Nobody wanted to buy it, so I didn't have much choice." The innkeeper frowned slightly. "Now that I think about it, though," he said, returning to the previous topic, "there has been something a little unusual happening around here for the last few months. Roving bands of Styrics, the countryside's been crawling with them. Struck me as a bit odd, since I've never heard of Styrics moving around all that much."

"We don't, as a rule," Sephrenia said. "We're not a nomadic people."

"I thought you might be Styric," the man said with a nod. "Judging by your looks and your clothes, anyway. We've a Styric village not far from here. Nice enough people, a little standoffish." He put on a thoughtful expression, sitting back in his chair. "If you wouldn't mind a little advice? I think you Styrics might avoid a lot of the trouble that breaks out from time to time if you'd just mingle with your neighbors more, let them get to know you better."

"It's not our way," Sephrenia disagreed. "I don't believe Elenes and Styrics are supposed to mingle."

"Maybe you're right," he said. "Not my place to say."

"Are these wandering Styrics doing anything in particular?" Sparhawk asked casually from where he sat by the fire, looking out the window.

"Asking questions is about all. They seemed mighty curious about the Zemoch war, for some reason." He rose to his feet. "Enjoy your supper," he said, heading back to the kitchen.

"We have a problem," Sephrenia said quietly in a grave tone. "Western Styrics do not wander about the countryside. Our Gods prefer to have us stay close to their altars."

"Zemochs, then?" Bevier surmised.

"Almost certainly."

"When I was in Lamorkand, there were reports of Zemochs infiltrating the country East of Motera," Kalten said, before popping the last bite of his potatoes in his mouth. "They were doing the same thing. Asking questions, wandering about, mostly interested in local folklore."

"Azash must have a plan similar to ours, then," Sephrenia said. "He's trying to gather information that will lead us to Bhelliom."

"A race, then," Kalten sighed, wiping his dagger clean and sheathing it.

"And he has a head start," Sephrenia replied with a nod.

"Zemochs ahead of us, church soldiers behind," Ulath added. "You've gone and gotten us surrounded, Sparhawk." He looked to Sephrenia. "Could the Seeker be controlling those Zemochs the same way it's controlling the soldiers? We might be riding into an ambush."

"I'm not completely certain," she admitted. "I've heard a great deal about Seekers, but I've never personally encountered one."

"You didn't have time to be that specific this morning," Sparhawk noted, moving his chair a bit closer to the table. "Exactly how is that thing controlling Annias' soldiers?"

"It's venomous," she said. "Its bite paralyzes the will of its prey - or its thralls."

"I'll make a point of not letting it bite me, then," Kalten commented.

"You may not be able to stop it," she told him. "That green glow is hypnotic. That makes it easier for it to get close enough to inject the venom."

"How fast can it fly?" Tynian asked.

"At this stage of life, it doesn't. It's still immature; its wings won't be functional until it becomes an adult. Besides, it needs to be on the ground to follow a scent trail. Ordinarily, to cover long distances, it travels on horseback. Since the horse is controlled the same way people are, the Seeker rides the animal to death and then finds another. It can quickly cover vast distances that way."

"What does it eat?" asked Kurik. "Maybe we can set a trap for it."

"It feeds predominantly on humans," Sephrenia answered.

"That would make baiting the trap difficult," Kurik said with a frown.

Sparhawk thought back to Anthony again. In particular, his restrictions. To always help others, even at personal risk, or something like that? "Sephrenia, what was it Anthony said about his restrictions?"

"Which one? He had quite a few of them."

"The one about goodness, or helping people."

From across the table Talen cleared his throat. "'That I must conform to a standard of behavior that promotes goodness and wellbeing of others, that I never allow evil to be commited unchallenged in my presence nor act in a way that hinders good acts, that I protect the innocent, even to the point of challenging authority and defying cruel or unjust laws'," he recited, his voice and inflections even sounding a little reminiscent of Anthony's.

"I keep forgetting you can do that," Kalten commented.

"Why do you ask?" Sephrenia questioned, looking at Sparhawk.

Sparhawk grimaced. "... That Seeker. Even if we double back, it's likely to find its way here. And even if it doesn't, it's going to be a scourge across the countryside for anyone it encounters. People will die. Many of them."

"Yes, yes they will," she said. "And we're in no position to do much but outrun it long enough to lose it; all it needs to do for Otha to win is simply delay us while the Zemochs continue their work. If it truly is time for the Bhelliom to reemerge into the world again, they're close to finding it. We can't afford to turn and chase the Seeker through the Eosian countryside; we don't have the time to spare."

"But this creature can afford to ride any number of horses to death to chase us, or escape from us," Kalten said. "How do we expect to lose it?"

"We can lose it cutting across the River Arruk," she replied. "It can't follow our scent across water. We can ride a league or two up or down river, and it will have to attempt to pick up our trail going up and down the river without knowing exactly where we crossed. But that only works if we stay far enough ahead of it, out of its line of sight, to do it."

"What about the River Cimmura? That's a lot closer."

"It runs parallel to the direction we're going, or close enough to it. The Seeker would just have to follow the river until it picked up our scent again. It would have to be Arruk; it's the only major river in our path that runs crossways for long enough to actually shake it."

There was a long moment of silence. "Sephrenia... that's nearly a hundred leagues away," Sparhawk said slowly.

"I am well aware."

"We can't keep up this pace for that long. We can't keep it up for even a third of that; the horses will never make it."

"Do you have a better idea?" she asked waspishly.

"We stand and kill it," Kalten suggested.

"It's infused with the spirit of Azash," she explained to him, slowly, like he was a child. "Even diminished by His distance and proxy, it is more powerful than any force of arms at our disposal."

"Then we're helpless against it?" Berit asked.

"No. But I don't have what I'd need to kill it on hand, and barring somehow pinning it in place, it likely wouldn't work anyway."

"What do you need?" Sparhawk asked.

"Pitch. Naphtha. About a bucket of each. I can conjure the rest."

"That sounds dreadfully sticky, if it's going to be mixed together," Tynian observed.

"Perhaps, but its flammability is what's important."

"Didn't you say the Seeker was immune to fire?" Bevier asked.

"It is," she agreed, "but it's not immune to the smoke. To humans, the smoke this mixture would produce is nauseating and disorienting, but humans can hold their breath and escape it readily enough. The Seeker has a different breathing apparatus and is incapable of holding its breath. To the Seeker, the smoke is much more toxic and ultimately fatal if it breathes enough of it."

"But it has to stick around long enough to breathe enough of it," Kalten said, "and that's the real reason it's always on horseback, isn't it? To be able to escape fast enough from what actually can hurt it."

"It sounds to me," Ulath opined carefully, "that what we need is a valley, a rock slide, and several hours time to set up."

"And pitch and naphtha," added Sephrenia. "That... sounds like it could work."

"Too bad we didn't go further north to Cimmura River," said Kalten. "Even if we couldn't shake it, following the river would have led us right to the mountains near Cardos. Would have been easy to set that up there."

"Aren't there any other mountains that could serve in the direction we're already going?" asked Tynian.

"Sure, further up the Arruk River," Kalten said. "A lot further. Halfway to Alaris, and I'm not sure there's any valleys between them that would be deep enough or step enough to work."

"So we're back to keeping ahead of the Seeker, then?" Kurik asked. "Because if so, we might need to pick up some extra draft horses and lighten our gear as we ride."

"Lighten our gear, as in pack up our chain mail?" Sparhawk clarified. "Absolutely not. There's no real reason that Annias couldn't have sent word ahead to keep an eye out for us, and I'm none too keen on running unarmored into a group of Arruk church soldiers just because we're trying to outrun the Seeker and [i]its[/i] church soldiers. We're just going to have to deal with the hand we were dealt."

"Not every hand is a winning hand, Sparhawk."

"Not every player at the table knows when another player doesn't have a winning hand, Kurik."